


The Holy and the Broken

by Solanaceae



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Incest, M/M, b2mem2013, established!cousincest, not very happy, which somehow isn't surprising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/pseuds/Solanaceae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation about death and unbreakable oaths and other such things. Featuring established!Curufin/Finrod. Warnings for cousincest. Written for B2MEM 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Holy and the Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Curufin/Finrod
> 
> I promised myself I'd write for this prompt. Kinda written for Back to Middle-earth Month 2013.
> 
> Prompt from Day One: "Be he friend or foe or foul offspring/of Morgoth Bauglir, be he mortal dark/that in after/days on earth shall dwell,/shall no law nor love nor league of Gods,/no might nor mercy, not moveless fate,/defend him for ever from the fierce vengeance/of the sons of Feanor, whoso seize or steal/or finding keep the fair enchanted/globes of crystal whose glory dies not,/the Silmarils. We have sworn for ever!"

"Don't you feel like this has happened before?" Curufin whispered, lips brushing Finrod's skin. The taller elf stiffened at the feather-light touch, body tensing against his cousin's.

"What do you mean?"

Curufin let out a soft, low chuckle that sent a shiver down Finrod's spine. "Death and doom, dearest cousin. This... darkness. From sworn word."

"You're talking about Beren," he replied, pulling away and looking into those pale grey eyes, flatter and colder than ice.

It was not a question, and Curufin did not treat it as such. He blinked, slowly and languidly, regarding his cousin with a thoughtful expression, as though Finrod was an interesting alloy, something he could shape in his forge, heat and bend to his will. (And he tried not to think about how apt that description was, not now, not here)

The blonde elf's eyes narrowed. "I swore an oath, Atarinkë. Surely that's something you can relate to."

"Perhaps." Curufin's lips curled slightly, that half-smirk that was the closest to a smile Finrod ever saw from him. "And what will the King of Nargothrond do about this oath of his, hm?" The words were almost mocking, would have been mocking in any other voice, but the tone was flat, emotionless - and cold, so cold Finrod almost shuddered.

"No less than a son of Fëanor would do," Finrod snapped, this time managing to step away from those eyes, that silvery smile that pulled him in. "Fulfill it."

"Oh." His cousin's eyes were half-closed, glinting in the soft light of the fire. "Was that meant as an insult, Ingoldo?"

Finrod closed his eyes, tried to will away the frantic drumming of his heart. He did not want to step back into those arms, did not want to let himself fall into those eyes again, like he had so many times before. And at the same time, that was the only thing he wanted to do.

The firelight played off of Curufin's pale skin as he regarded Finrod, highlighting scars and casting his face into shadow. His bare torso had a gleaming red cast, as though he himself was formed of flame, and Finrod wondered at how like his father he looked just then. But had the Spirit of Fire ever stirred him thus, sent heat coiling through his stomach like this? Had the elder Curufinwë's grey eyes sent needles of ice down his spine in this shameful blend of attraction and wanting?

The answer to that was the same as it had always been.  _Never. They are not as alike as others say they are - the father and the son._

_And yet they are._

"What will you do about this - about Beren?" Finrod asked, and it was a challenge, daring Curufin to tell a lie - because both of them knew what the truth was, it was there in the room with them, heavy and dark and laden with the stench of death. There was only ever one truth, with the sons of Fëanor. And it was a cold truth, colder than betrayal - and hotter than flame, all-consuming.

"I only ever do what I am expected to do. No more, no less." Curufin tilted his head, lifting his chin, the firelight falling into his eyes, gilding his pale neck with a soft gleam. "As do you."

"And what am I expected to do?" He shook his head, purposefully looking off into the fireplace, until the light had dazzled his eyes and he could look away again, afterimages racing across the blackness, erasing his cousin. "That has never been the same for you and I, Atarinkë. You know that."

Curufin was quiet then, staring at him with those storm-grey eyes, and Finrod wanted to flinch away. He had always hated it when his cousin watched in silence. There was always that feeling that Curufin saw so much more than anyone would want him to see, saw beneath the feeble actions to the motivation beneath, past the facade to the actor playing his doomed role. And Finrod was not sure he wanted anyone that deep. This cousin least of all.

"What do you want?" he asked, more to break the silence than anything - and mostly to get Curufin's eyes away from him, off of him.

"Want?" Curufin repeated, sounding almost amused - as amused as he ever sounded, that was. The corners of his mouth twitched again, teeth gleaming ever so slightly from under his upraised lip. "To fulfill my Oath and avenge my father, cousin dearest. Surely you know that."

"No," Finrod said, anger rising in him for no reason he could name. "What do you  _want?_ Not what you tell everyone you desire." Because nine times out of ten that was a lie, and the last time was always what everyone expected from a son of Fëanor - the Oath, always the Oath, nothing beyond that.

"And why should those two things be different?" Despite the detached words, Finrod thought there might have been something besides the customary coldness in Curufin's eyes as he looked past his cousin, into the fire. "Besides. It's never really mattered."

_What hasn't mattered? Your own desires, or..._

"Then why should it matter what I want?" Finrod pressed, not sure why he was trying, not sure why it was so important to him that his cousin understand what he wasn't even sure he understood. "An oath is an oath. I will not be forsworn - no more than you."

Curufin glanced up, something unreadable flashing across his face. "You are merely repeating my words."

"Does it annoy you?" There was a feeling of walking on the edge of a knife - one misstep from falling, one misstep from cutting himself on that steely grey - and every word that fell from his mouth was another step forward, another chance that he might fall. And there was something about that danger that took his breath away. "Do  _I_  annoy you, Atarinkë?"

"Never." Curufin arched one eyebrow, stepping closer. Finrod had to fight to remain still.

"That's a lie," he whispered, glad that his voice remained steady, not a tremble in it to betray him.

"I've only ever told you the truth, Ingoldo," Curufin replied, breath warm against his face. They were suddenly close enough for Finrod to see the flecks of black in his cousin's eyes, to smell the faint spice of wine on his breath. That didn't surprise him - his cousins seemed to drink often, as though through long habit, but where Celegorm got aggressively drunk, Curufin never seemed to really lose that steel-sharp focus, that utter control. And there was something about the way Curufin leaned in now, all cold grace and quiet power, that made heat blossom in Finrod's stomach.

"Atarinkë, what-?"

"You asked what I want, Ingoldo." There was not a trace of tenderness in Curufin's face as he pressed against Finrod, looking up at him, reflected sparks dancing in the grey sky. "And I told you the truth." He buried his face in Finrod's neck, breath hot across the soft skin of the taller elf's neck, and Finrod stiffened, fire racing up and down his body.

_Spirit of Fire, just like his father - that's what they all said, wasn't it?_

"And what do you want?" Curufin whispered into him, lips tickling his shoulder.

_What I want..._

"It is as you said." Finrod replied, closing his eyes. "It doesn't matter." And it never would. He was caught in the tide of darkness and light and oaths and blood - and if he had been the one to jump into the chaos in the first place, then he could not complain when he was swept away, could he?

He pulled Curufin in - yanked, really - lips parting slightly, not a trace of gentleness in his kiss. The shorter elf did not stiffen, or pull away - merely fell forward into him, melted against him. His teeth fastened on his cousin's lower lip, and the star-bright burst of pain made Finrod gasp. He tasted blood.

Curufin let out the smallest hiss as they sank to the floor - barely an indrawn breath, almost inaudible. Finrod met his eyes, and the fire that burned in the grey was mirrored in his, hot and bright and so alive.

And oh, Eru, there was something about those eyes, that smile, that he couldn't escape.

"Ingoldo..." Curufin arched against Finrod and pulled him in, fingers hot on his bare torso, forge-rough calluses catching on the skin of his back. "If there is any way I can do what I must without..."

Finrod closed off his cousin's mouth with his own, because if Curufin finished that sentence, he didn't know what he would do next. Something dark and quiet stirred in his heart - he knew what was to follow, what had to follow (had always known, in a way).

_I will do what I have to do. And he will, too._

Nothing could change that.


End file.
